The Game (10 page)

Cecil did not expect his agent to respond, and he continued, speaking very much to himself. “FitzGerald has yet to reconcile himself to eternal exile from that wretched land he calls his home. I doubt he ever will. And now this—new players.” Cecil faced the spy. “You will instruct your men that St. Leger House is to be watched at all hours. If these visitors return, I must learn their identity.”

The agent nodded and left.

Cecil spoke to the empty room, grim. “God’s blood! Visitors in the night must mean a conspiracy—and FitzGerald conspires yet again against the queen! But who dares to conspire with the Lame Earl now? Who could be so foolish—or so bold?”

Cecil had grown very thoughtful. He was so sick to death of the Irish problem, a never-ending problem of defiance and rebellion, carried out by half-mad, savage Celts; it was a problem that had to be solved. The queen had to have complete control over Ireland. Otherwise England’s enemies would establish a toehold there. And had he not said from the very beginning that it was madness to remove FitzGerald from Ireland? And he had been right. The proof of that was one too-clever lunatic, the leader of the rebels, James FitzMaurice, already supported by France, Spain, and the Pope.

Sir William was determined to learn the identities of the new conspirators. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was an opportunity here—one that might please everyone, one that might solve everything.

The man screamed.

The soldiers were impassive as they watched his body being stretched out upon the rack. When the unholy screams had faded, one stepped forward, in red doublet, pale hose, and a sword that was clearly not ceremonial. The castellan of Tilbury Castle put his face close to the man’s. “Come, sailor, surely you can speak now? Why did you and your friend come upon Tilbury Beach? Who did you bring? For whom do you wait? You have a scant minute to tell me what I will learn from you. The next time the wheel turns, your arms will be torn from your body, perhaps your legs as well.”

“Please, God have mercy, no!” the sailor sobbed. “I speak, I speak!”

The castellan nodded. “Out with it.”

“We—we come from the
Sea Dagger
.”

The castellan’s eyes widened. “The
Sea Dagger?
Liam O’Neill’s ship?”

The sailor made a guttural sound that was obviously affirmative.

“O’Neill is here? At Tilbury?”

“No, your lordship. We’re waitin’ fer him. To take him back to his ship.”

The castellan began to chuckle. He rubbed his hands together in real glee. “God’s blood! ’Tis my day of fortune! How pleased the good queen will be when I deliver her the sea’s most notorious master!”

Abruptly he turned to the sailor still stretched out upon the rack. “Where did O’Neill go? What mission does he perform?”

The sailor whimpered. “I don’t know.”

Displeasure crossed the castellan’s face and he signaled to the man cranking the wheel of the rack. The sailor screamed. And screamed, and screamed.

They cantered up the road, Tilbury Castle looming ahead of them. Katherine was so tired she could barely stay in the saddle, so tired now she could no longer think. Her body screamed in aching protest, her sore muscles badly abused from the many hours she had spent in the saddle that day. But the sight of the castle, etched against the blue sky, gave her strength. Although she was being taken to her doom—the pirate ship—she was far too exhausted to care about anything other than getting down from her mount as quickly as possible. After she had rested, she would face her future. Until then, she must cling to the knowledge that Hugh was alive. For that knowledge gave her another choice—and it gave her hope.

Liam suddenly stiffened in his saddle; his hand tightened upon his sword. “Mac,” he murmured. “Something is amiss.”

Macgregor reached for his pistol, and a second later they were set upon by a horde of swordsmen.

A dozen infantrymen erupted from the woods and swooped down upon them. Katherine screamed as swords clashed and sang. Liam did not dismount, driving his horse forward as he thrust and met his first attacker, instantly thrusting past the man’s blows to wound him in the chest.
The man went down, blood blossoming on his jerkin. Swiftly Liam slashed yet another assailant, and then another, and then another. His mount screamed shrilly, nicked by a sword, beginning to bleed.

Katherine’s terror did not diminish when she realized that she had been boxed in by both Liam and the Scot, as if they were protecting her. Liam parried still, with the same results, slaying or wounding another soldier. Meanwhile Macgregor had tossed his pistol aside, after killing one assailant, and now wielded his sword with the same kind of stunning skill his captain displayed. Katherine clutched her reins, watching in abject fear as Liam and Macgregor fought off their numerous attackers. Already the ground around them was littered with gray doublets. It did not seem possible, surely not, that Liam and Macgregor could actually fight off these troops? Yet it seemed that victory was soon to be theirs.

And then Katherine saw the reinforcements—musketeers. Her heart lurched. The musketeers came charging down the road, cloaks flying, their doublets red. Katherine opened her mouth to warn Liam—too late.

A musket ball whizzed past his head. And then another screamed by. Liam was still engaged in a sword fight with his last two adversaries. Katherine had never imagined that any mortal man could fight so effectively, so lethally, slaying his opponents one after the other. Then a third musket ball pierced Liam’s shoulder, leaving a hole in his cloak. Liam grunted, still parrying with one of the last remaining swordsmen. Katherine watched as the hole in his cloak turned red. He had been hit in his left shoulder, on the back. Had it been his right, he would have been lost.

But as it was, his right arm moved with lightning speed, slashing down his last opponent. And suddenly it was over, just minutes after it had begun. For the musketeers had surrounded them, a dozen deadly muskets primed and raised, ready to blow off their heads.

Liam lowered his rapier. So did Macgregor. Both men were panting, sweat streaking their faces. Their hands and arms were covered in blood. Katherine looked at the
bloody patch of wool on Liam’s back. Her stomach threatened to disgorge itself. Her entire body was shaking.

A man detached himself from the troops, riding forward to face Liam. His red doublet was gay with gold braid and black ribbons. His plumed black hat was set at a severe angle. He held his rapier in a gauntleted hand almost casually. But there was nothing casual about his black eyes and hard expression. “I am Sir Walter Debrays, castellan of Tilbury,” he announced. “Lay down your blade, Captain O’Neill. You are my prisoner.”

Liam held his gaze for another heartbeat, then laid down his weapon.

They were escorted across the lowered drawbridge, through the raised portcullis and into the second ward. There they were told to dismount. Despite herself, as Katherine obeyed, she was frightened. Although she had no fondness for her captor, she knew that, within days, he would meet his Maker. No pirate would be allowed to live, not even in confinement. Somehow it did not seem right.

But Katherine could not think about that now. She stood between Liam and Macgregor, achingly aware of Liam’s silent battle with pain. Debrays shoved between them, pulling Katherine forward. She wore her hood, and he pushed it back off her face. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Katherine did not respond. Of course she should reveal that she was a prisoner. Then she would be freed. But then she would be adding the crime of abduction to that of the many other crimes Liam would be charged with. She hesitated. He deserved punishment, but she did not think he deserved death. After all, he had not raped her. He had captured her, true, but neither he nor his men had harmed her or Juliet.

“She does not answer.” Debrays smiled and turned to Liam. “Your doxy is beautiful, O’Neill. But then, they say your women are always astounding jewels.”

Liam’s expression was impossible to read. He actually appeared bored, despite the fact that he held his injured
left arm tightly against his side. “She is not my doxy. She is my prisoner.”

Debrays laughed in disbelief. “Were she your prisoner, O’Neill, she would not be looking at you with such concern! Come, they say you are more than clever—but that was exceedingly stupid.”

A muscle in Liam’s jaw ticked. He finally turned his gray gaze upon Katherine—and she thought she saw a warning there.

Debrays smiled and jerked her against his side. He slid his hand into her cloak and squeezed her breast. Katherine cried out, bucking against him. Liam jumped forward, only to have five rapiers press their sharp, pointed tips into his chest, shredding his shirt. He froze. Debrays lifted a brow, still stroking Katherine’s breast, and making a display of it. “Ahh—we are possessive of our toys?”

“She is my prisoner,” Liam said harshly, “and I intended to reap a ransom for her. ’Twas our reason for coming afoot on English soil. She is Katherine FitzGerald, Debrays, daughter of the earl of Desmond. I suggest you treat her with the respect she is due.”

Debrays faltered.

Katherine wet her lips. It had dawned upon her that Debrays, unlike Liam, would rape her, and enjoy inflicting the abuse, too. She also realized now that Liam was defending her. “I am Gerald and Joan FitzGerald’s daughter,” she managed to utter. “And I demand you remove your hand from my person.”

He removed his hand. He looked at her briefly, at her pale, lovely face. His jaw clenched. “Randolph, take her into the hall and see that she is given a chamber and all else she needs.” He turned to face Liam. “You, O’Neill, will adjourn to the dungeons while I await orders from the lord admiral.”

A young soldier had come to stand beside Katherine, his gaze inquiring. Katherine ignored him. Liam and Macgregor were grabbed roughly and pushed forward, across the ward. Katherine bit off a cry as she watched them. The back of Liam’s cloak was mostly red. She realized
that he might very well die from his wound and not from a hangman’s noose.

“Lady FitzGerald?”

Katherine met the young soldier’s hesitant gaze. Then she whirled to face the castellan. “Sir Walter!” she cried. “You cannot send that man to the dungeon without a physician attending him first.”

Debrays raised a brow. “How concerned you are for his welfare, my lady. Perhaps you are not merely his prisoner? Perhaps you are not his prisoner at all?”

Katherine recalled Liam’s large, aroused body covering hers, recalled the storm of need and desire she had felt in response. Flushing, she said, “I was abducted on the high seas, sir. As a matter of fact, Captain O’Neill made his demand for ransom not too many hours ago,” she lied.

“And the pretty prisoner has begun to hanker after the virile sea captain?” Debrays almost sneered.

“No!”

“Then do not concern yourself with his welfare,
Lady
FitzGerald.” Debrays nodded at the young soldier. “Take her to the hall, Randolph.”

“Aye, sir.” Randolph gripped her elbow and Katherine had no choice but to follow him across the ward and into the main hall. She told herself that she was glad. She was free of her captor at long last. But she kept seeing his bloody back, kept imagining him in some dark, dank dungeon, lying near death.

Katherine was given a small chamber on the floor above the hall, and her own maid to attend her. She bathed but had little appetite. The events of her entire adventure, beginning with her capture at sea by the pirate, kept replaying in her mind. She recalled how her father had offered her in marriage to Liam O’Neill. She thought about the pirate’s wound, and wondered if it would fester and kill him.

She passed a restless night. She dreamed of her father, not as a shabby prisoner in St. Leger House, but as the earl of Desmond, presiding over their home, Askeaton. In her dreams, Gerald was bold and ebullient, dressed in all
his finery, and her elegant mother, the Countess Joan, still lived. Katherine was surprised when Hugh appeared, a freckle-faced boy trying to steal a kiss. Katherine was happy to oblige him. They kissed and laughed and kissed again. But then Liam materialized, enraged, and pulled them apart. Katherine was no longer a girl, but a full-grown woman, and Hugh had disappeared. When Liam embraced her, his arms dissolved into blood. Katherine screamed. Liam was gone, and her hands dripped red.

Katherine awoke feeling as if she had hardly slept at all. As she was in England, she said a hurried and furtive mass on her knees in her room, having sent her maid away to fetch a small break-fast. Katherine made sure to finish her prayers before the maid returned. While the queen did not really persecute or pursue papists, one and all had to conform outwardly to the new religious ways.

Katherine spent the rest of the morning pacing her small chamber, unable to prevent herself from wondering how Liam fared. She told herself it did not matter if his wound festered and he died, but she did not really mean it.

One of Debrays’s men came to her chamber shortly before noon. It was the young soldier, Randolph. “You must come with me, my lady. Please bring your cloak.”

Katherine had little choice, and she followed the soldier down the narrow stone stairs. Katherine’s heart beat hard and fast. Had Debrays decided to allow her to attend to Liam after all? Or was she being released? The latter did not seem likely, at least not yet.

When she entered the ward, she saw him and faltered. Liam and Macgregor were being escorted by six soldiers from the other side of the ward. Although both men were squinting in the daylight after having been immersed in total darkness for more than twenty-four hours, Liam walked without help. His arm had been bound in a crude sling to his side. As he came closer, she saw that his shirt had been torn up and used as both a sling and a bandage. Beneath his bloodstained cloak, he was naked from the waist up, and the muscles in his stomach and chest rippled as he moved. She also saw that he was somewhat flushed
with fever. But she had seen color far higher and far worse. Clearly the pirate had the constitution of an ox.